


A Crown Laid Heavy On My Head

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Present Tense, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The House of Eorl is dead - all slain, save one: Eowyn, the last vestige of the House of Eorl. Taken in and raised by rebels on the borderlands of Rohan, Eowyn returns to Edoras in disguise, meaning to recruit others to her cause and gain access to Usurper King Wormtongue when the time comes to cut his throat. Instead, she finds the King is much cleverer than she thinks - and her duty perhaps far more than she can bear alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crown Laid Heavy On My Head

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be kind of a fun fic where Grima was the Usurper King and Eowyn a rebel leader in disguise, meant to feature much snark and threatening of murder. Instead, it turned into some sort of giant, thoughtful take on what sort of struggles Eowyn would have as this icon of the rebels with this destiny placed upon her that she never really thinks of as hers and in fact straight-up resents.
> 
> Also it’s really, really long. Woops. Sorry about that…
> 
> But anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

When Éowyn comes at last to Edoras, to the palace that should have been her home, she comes under a different name. Aefentide, they call her, evening; and though she is as bright and beautiful as the morning sun, no one can deny that deep within her, there is something of the dark.

For Éowyn, the name is suitable, preferable even. It reminds her of what she was, and who she was, far more than the abstraction of a name her parents gave her. That name holds only bitterness and duty and the burden of her people. Éowyn, the girl who would be queen, who must be queen. The girl come back to claim her throne.

She comes to Edoras now only to observe, to meet the man who sits in her place. Know thy enemy, her loyal servants tell her, standing by her side; but do not get too close.

So she enters Edoras in rags and bearing a name that feels more like her own than the one that puts a crown upon her head. She has been raised by rebels to believe that the throne is her birthright, that rebellion is her destiny, that war and blood are all that she will know; that the long peace she hopes and dreams for can only be achieved through duty and through death.

She has been raised to believe that the man who sits upon the throne is little more than a monster, a twisted serpent with a silver tongue and poison upon his lips, seduction in his voice, death and ruin in his eyes. His very blood is tainted and turns his hair to shadow, turns his skin to pallid white. His eyes see all and strip men bare, will take one look at her and know that she has come to challenge him.

Éowyn wants to see this man, to know the monster before she slays him. And so she conceals herself in rags and dirt, and pretends to believe, as others do, that Éowyn is dead, that the house of Eorl is withered and gone into the annals of history, never to be seen again.

Sometimes she wishes she was as dead as all seem to think her.

*

When Éowyn comes to Edoras, she does not come alone. She arrives among a small party of her rebel friends – her guardians; her captors. They surround her as they have always surrounded her, claiming protection, hiding fear.

From the tales her guardians told her, Éowyn expected Edoras to be subdued, a wretched ruin of a city left to be swept away by time and terror. But Edoras is nothing like her nightmares. The city bursts with light and life, its markets busy and overflowing with both goods and people. Most are blond, like Éowyn; but many are not. Foreigners line these streets, haggling and trading and gossiping among the others.

This is not the Edoras her uncle would have made; but there is something beautiful about it all the same.

They pass the markets by, despite Éowyn’s many pleas to stop. “We have a mission,” one guard reminds her. “You have a mission. Would you turn aside for the novelty of pretty baubles and strange faces? You are a princess. Act like one.”

So Éowyn comes to Meduseld sullen, her eyes downcast and cold. She takes in the carved columns and golden roof with pursed lips. She expects to feel something mighty, to be swept away by the history of the place – but instead, she feels nothing. Her family lived here, once, but they are long dead now, with only the plains left to mourn them.

The golden roof, she finds, is only made of straw.

*

When they are brought inside to be considered, it is the Steward who first greets them. His dark hair distinguishes him from the servants that pass him by – one of Wormtongue’s Dunlendings, it would seem. He calls himself Horst and speaks only Westron, with a heavy accent and obvious difficulty.

“You sit,” he tells them, motioning to some benches beyond the kitchens. “We look at you later.”

With those cryptic words he departs, and leaves the rebel band mostly alone.

Sometimes, one of the others grabs a passing servant and speaks in hushed tones of the old days, asking if the Usurper King is cruel, asking if he tells them lies. The servants duck their heads and do not answer, moving onward.

“This is why the time is not right,” one rebel whispers. “Because they do not yet believe. We must stir anew the people’s anger, ignite their passion and their imaginations with tales of the lost princess. And you, my lady, you must observe as best you can – ingratiate yourself with the servants, speak often of politics. You must be subtle and clever about it, but with time, you will win many to our cause. Just keep away from the king, and all will be well.

Éowyn does not think she is really very clever or very subtle. No one told her that these things were required of her. They put a sword in her hand and told her grand tales of riding into battle, shedding blood upon the field, riding to the throne upon the blood of Rohan’s enemies. They did not speak of this, the quiet time, when the people must be roused; when the king must be observed.

Horst returns, his expression stony. He looks Éowyn over with a frown and cold eyes. “We need only one,” he says, glaring at the others. He raises a finger and points, the hand of doom, at Éowyn. “You,” he says, motioning for her to follow. “Come.”

Heart pounding in her chest, Éowyn rises and follows – for the first time in a long, long time, alone.

*

Horst leaves Éowyn with a servant, who informs her that she will be bathed and dressed.

“Why?” Éowyn asks, when the servant brings her to the tub full of water. “What purpose does this serve?”

“You must be prepared to meet the King,” the servant says, tones clipped and flat and bored. “He prefers to know his staff before accepting them into his house.”

Éowyn scoffs at that. “He cannot know the names of every servant in Meduseld.”

The servant casts her a disparaging glance. “He does,” she says; “And you would do well to remember it, if you mean to stay here with us. Be assured he most certainly will remember you.”

Éowyn bathes in silence, and begins to fear that this was perhaps not so grand an idea, after all.

*

Horst guides her directly into the throne room, empty now save for the arching throne at its center. Night has fallen, and matters of the state are closed until the morning. The court has abandoned Meduseld’s great hall, and in it the Wormtongue sits alone, one arm resting upon his throne, his hand pressed over his eyes. The crown, it seems, sits heavy upon his dark head.

Éowyn clenches her fists. Let it sit heavily, she thinks; let it weigh you down until it snaps your neck. That crown is meant to be mine.

Horst says something in Dunlendish – it sounds, for a moment, akin to Rohirric, similar words spoken in twisted, lilting tones. She can almost understand, but clarity eludes her. She lets the language rest and braces herself for the battle to come.

Wormtongue sighs and looks up, and the blood in Éowyn’s veins goes cold, just for a moment.

He is not a handsome man, but there is a peculiar sort of beauty to the broken form of his face. He is as pale as the moon itself, and his eyes are the clearest, brightest, coldest blue that Éowyn has ever seen. All the stories of those eyes come rushing back to her in a mighty tide, and for one wild moment she fears that he sees right through her, that he will speak her given name and know her purpose here – to bring him down, to take the throne upon which he sits, so weary, so alone.

Then she breathes again, and reminds herself that he is just a man, and a small man at that. He has no prowess in the weapons of war, if the rumors are true; his gift is in words and in pretty little lies, smoke and mirrors meant to blind and frighten her.

She steels herself against him, and tells herself she is not frightened anymore.

She lifts her chin and manages a bow, small and mocking, never breaking her gaze from his. His eyes narrow slightly, and he straightens in his seat. He is every inch a king now, alert, suspicious. Éowyn clenches her teeth, and curses her stiff spine; but her stubborn pride will not allow her to bend any further to this pretender. She is the daughter of kings; Eorl’s blood is in her veins; and this man does not deserve her fealty.

He tilts his head ever so slightly to the right, unblinking. Éowyn holds her position, but she is all too aware of his gaze. Her skin prickles, and she wonders again if he has not been given some magical gift by the wizard who granted him the throne.

“I would hardly call that a bow,” he remarks at last. His voice startles her – sibilant, slow, tasting every word as he speaks. Each syllable seems to have a new and particularly interesting flavor to him, rolling about his tongue like foreign candy. “Do you intend to make a habit of such disrespect?”

Éowyn swallows, and forces herself to bend an inch or two further. She is no queen to him, no descendant of Eorl; she is Aefentide, the evening, and she is nothing but a shadow. “I am sorry if you saw it as such, my liege,” she replies, her voice steady and calm and regal – too regal. He arches a brow, but does not comment. “I had thought you wished to look at me, given the particular intensity of your stare.”

A flash of a smile crosses his lips, there and gone as soon as she blinks. “Insolent as well asflippant,” he says. “Obedience does not come naturally to you, I see.”

Éowyn rises from her subservient position, straight and tall and proud. “Was I mistaken, my lord, in my presumption?” she asks, folding her hands before her. Her eyes dare him to deny it, dare him to pretend he is not enjoying the opportunity to look. “I meant only to anticipate what you desired.”

The smile stays this time, lingering in the left-hand corner of his mouth. He leans forward, folding his hands and setting his chin upon them. “Did you indeed,” he murmurs. He takes the invitation she gives him so brashly, looking her over slowly and with pleasure. “Have you a name, girl, or shall I be forced to draw that out of you as well?”

She flushes and lifts her chin, staring him down, setting her jaw. “Aefentide, my lord,” she says. Oh, the name does roll so prettily off her tongue. It is a good name, her name, the name she wishes she could claim.

“Aefentide,” Wormtongue repeats, tasting the word sensuously. A small shiver runs through Éowyn at the sound – and she is startled when she realizes it is not from fear. “Evening. What a strange choice of name. There is nothing of the dark about you.”

Éowyn stiffens, her eyes cold and hard. She thinks of the dreams that plague her nights, of her parents and flames and the blood-red sun at evenfall, and the coming night that always rolls in, that always threatens to swallow her whole. “You might be surprised,” she says.

Wormtongue smiles again – but to her eyes there is something softer in the smile. “Might I?” he asks, more to himself than to her. “I was never much fond of surprises.” He shakes his head, as if to clear the thought, and his gaze focuses once more. His eyes are cold, hard flecks of ice, boring through her skin, stripping back her defenses.

Éowyn swallows hard and shifts her weight to a different foot. “You have not asked me why I am here,” she says, “Or what use I could be to you.”

He sits back and waves a hand dismissively. “I know already why you’ve come,” he says, pressing his lips into a thin, pale line. The implication of his knowledge frightens her, but he makes no move to seize her. She must be imagining it. “And as for what use you might be… that is for me to determine.”

Éowyn purses her lips. “Forgive me, my liege, for assuming I was allowed to have an opinion in the matter.”

The words leave her before she can stop them, sharp and angry and not in any form an acceptable way to address a king. She thinks, for one horrified moment, that this is the end, that he will toss her out or have her killed for this disrespect – that all her hard work will be for nothing.

Instead, he merely laughs. “You are not afraid of me, are you?” he asks.

Éowyn swallows again, meeting his eyes. “Should I be?” she replies.

The smile widens, almost predatorial now, hungry. He’s enjoying this – enjoying her disrespect, enjoying this little battle.

Perhaps this is what they wanted, when they asked her to be clever.

He leans forward again and beckons, summoning her to him. “Come here,” he says, the words whisper-soft and brooking no refusal.

She straightens, stiff and proud, and comes forward, stopping a yard away from the throne.

“Closer,” Wormtongue says. “Contrary to what you may have heard, I don’t bite.”

Éowyn sees the glimmer of his teeth behind his smile, and she can almost taste the bitterness of the joke. Look at me; they call me a snake, but I am a man like you, and if my teeth are sharp, it is you who made them so.

Emboldened, she comes forward, much closer, perhaps a foot from the base of his throne. She should bow again, she knows, but she doesn’t. She looks her enemy in his eyes, and he looks into hers, and there they stay for a long, long moment, looking into one another.

Éowyn is not sure she dislikes what she sees; and that discomfits her far more than any cruelty he might commit.

At last he sits back in his chair, regal and straight-backed, laying his hands across his stomach. “Aefentide,” he repeats. “Perhaps I can see it now, a little better; but it still feels foreign to you, strange.”

“What would you call me by instead, my lord?” she asks, too flippant, too flirtatious. She starts a little at the sound of her voice. Where did that tone come from? It has an inflection she did not intend to let in, a meaning she did not wish to imply.

He seems to like the implication, regardless of her intent. “You are more like the sun, if a cold winter sun,” he says. “Sunnifa, perhaps. It seems a choicer name.”

The name is foreign and strange, but Éowyn knows its meaning. It is the Dunlending’s bastardization of the Rohirric name Sunngifu, sun-gift. She admits, only the privacy of her thoughts, that Sunnifa sounds much prettier. “You are the King, of course,” Éowyn says, with a small bow. “I suppose that entitles you to name me whatever you like.”

He smirks, slow and dangerous; and it is then that Éowyn sees why the rebels call him the Wormtongue, the Viper. He is a snake, cold-blooded and patient, and far more dangerous than he looks. “I suppose it does,” he agrees, very quietly; and then he rises from his throne and comes down the steps towards her, stopping just in front of her. He is barely her height, perhaps an inch or three taller than she. Éowyn reflects that she could kill him now, if she wanted; he is certainly close enough. His dark velvet robe brushes her arm, and for an instant she thinks that he will lay a hand upon her.

Instead, he turns his face from hers and starts to walk away, hands folded behind his back. “I have been searching quite some time for a chambermaid to tend my quarters. The rooms are of impressive size, and I’ve yet to find someone who can manage them properly. I suspect, however, that you shall do.”

There is no question in his voice when he makes the pronouncement. He is not asking. He is commanding. By his claim to kingship he will lay his mark upon her and call her his, a pretty bauble to play with until he grows bored.

For a moment, Éowyn panics. Stay away from him, the rebels said; observe from afar, but do not get close. Stay close, and he will find you out. Stay close, and he will kill you. And now this – to be close to him at all times, to observe him night and day, to be in the space that is his most intimate and personal…

The raging tide inside her calms. Perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps this is exactly what she needs. From this position, she may observe him at his weakest and most vulnerable. She will come to know this man better than anyone – all the better to strike him down when the right time comes.

She drops a perfect curtsy, head bowed low. “You honor me, my lord.”

She thinks she hears the smile in his voice as he walks towards the door. “I rather think I do.”

*

Éowyn is not sure what surprises her more – how easily she becomes a part of Meduseld’s daily activities, or how very ordinary Wormtongue seems.

She sees him in the mornings, when she first awakens and dresses herself, and stumbles into his bedroom to wake him in turn. He sleeps fitfully, the furs tangled between his legs, his hair a mess of tangles. His dreams must trouble him, as hers have always troubled her.

She wants to ask, but keeps her silence, as a good maid should.

For the first few weeks, when she wakes him, he is all brusque annoyance and boyish snarls, pushing her away with angry hands. She treats him like a child then, speaking in the tones of a haggard nurse. When he glares at her from under heavy lids, she smiles sweetly and says, “If you act the child, my king, then I shall treat you as one.”

She forgets, most days, that such insolence could be her doom. She forgets, because he accepts it from her as he does not anyone else. At first she thinks it must be something about the way she was taught to carry herself, some light of Eorl shining through her that causes him to obey; but it has nothing to do with Eorl and everything to do with who she is to him, smart Aefentide the servant, the beautiful girl who does not fear him.

Every morning, she washes and combs his hair, watches him spot-bathe, chooses his clothes. His garb becomes more colorful, more Rohirric under her hands. He notices the change, but if it troubles him, he does not comment. He accepts her decisions quietly and with pleasure.

When he is dressed she lets Horst the Steward in and fetches breakfast, bringing it to him on a tray and setting it beside him while he and Horst consult. They talk of politics, and the safety of Rohan, and sometimes vaguely of the White Wizard who holds Gríma’s chains. They are becoming more chain than reward lately, Éowyn learns; for the Wizard is gone quite mad with fear. The Great Eye looks towards him and wisely suspects betrayal – and if they are not careful, the White Wizard will summon Rohan to war.

How can Gríma refuse, when Saruman has granted him so much?

Anger smolders in Éowyn’s gut, but she says nothing, biting back her angry words. She thinks of her mother and her father and her brother, ashes on the wind, and casts her blame upon the man she bows and scrapes to, as if he were her true king.

She meets daily with one of her rebel contacts, in quiet corners where they trust they will not be observed. She speaks of what she has learned of the Wormtongue, and inquires as to when the time will be ripe to move forward.

“Patience, my lady,” her contact says. “Things are progressing as best they may. Even now we recruit the citizenry to our cause, planting seeds of doubt into their minds. Some now believe that you yet live, that we have raised you from the ashes and that you will lead us into glorious battle against the forces of darkness. But many more must come to believe before the time will be right. To kill him now would throw the country into chaos. But the time will soon be at hand for you to wear the crown.”

Éowyn rises, shaking out her skirts. “My position is precarious, and Wormtongue’s kindness fleeting,” she warns. “Do not wait too long.”

*

But things do not move any more quickly. Progress continues to be slow, and all advise her only to watch and wait.

Yet watching, Éowyn finds, is just as deadly to her mission as revealing herself might be.

She wants to believe that Wormtongue is a monster – and he is, oh, he is. His temper flares at strange moments, quick and harsh and dangerous. His pride is so easily injured, and when injured, she finds that he strikes out at whoever happens to be nearest. He tolerates no insolence and brooks no refusal – unless, of course, they are hers. He accepts her impudence with a laugh, a retort, and a smile, as if her barbs are all in play.

The difference does not escape her. The difference delights her.

When he wakes in the morning, he takes to smiling at her instead of pushing her away. “I always hoped to wake each morning to a beautiful woman,” he says once, apparently before he can think better of it.

Éowyn laughs and lets the remark roll off like water. “You should hope that said woman might wish to wake up to you,” she replies. “Which I assure you, I do not.”

“And here I thought you took such joy in drawing me from pleasant dreams,” Gríma says, sitting up and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Éowyn snorts, pouring a basin of water for him to use for washing. “You do not have pleasant dreams, my lord,” she says. “That much is apparent from the way in which you sleep. You should be thanking me for freeing you from their grasp.”

“Thank you,” he says, the words dripping with mocking, “For observing my sleeping habits with such due diligence. Should I be afraid, sweet Sunnifa, that you mean to kill me?”

The words are said in jest, but they make Éowyn’s blood run cold. She forces a smile, thin-lipped, and replies, “You really must learn to curb your suspicious nature, my liege, or you will be left with no one to trust.”

He laughs, but the sound rings with bitterness. “You are not so observant as you think, if you believe I have anyone left to place my trust in.”

The remark startles Éowyn more than she dares to admit; but she confirms its truth time and time again as the days pass her by. She realizes, the more she observes him, that his vile temper and inexplicable rages come mostly from his fear – his fear of betrayal, assassination, murder. Every moment of every day, Gríma Wormtongue is afraid. His master looms over him from Isengard, Sauron from Mordor, the Rohirrim all around him. He is a king beset by enemies; and even those he hopes to trust are a danger to him.

Even her.

*

She watches him now for the game he plays – the political game that she was never taught, a game that she must learn.

She does not understand the subtleties, not even when he explains them. She does not understand why he cannot simply cast out emissaries who insult him, why he must pay equally subtle and cruel insults so that they may only take offense in private. She does not understand how it is he is able to maneuver ambassadors into signing neat peace treaties and pretty contracts promising more than they meant to give and less than they’d hoped to gain. She does not understand the word ‘compromise,’ and how sometimes a king must give up things he hoped never to relinquish.

Most of all she does not understand why it is that Gríma must balance fear and comfort amongst his people: why it is that he must be both monster and savior at all times, and how he manages to be both so precisely that none quite dare to oppose him.

War, though, and battle, and the importance of symbols – these are things she understands. Battle strategy, patrolling, holding the borders: these things are second nature to her, bred into her blood from the moment the rebels found and took her in.

He notes her interest and begins to talk with her sometimes about the troubles of the court. He invites her into his morning conversations with Horst, asking her advice, watching her intently while she speaks.

She becomes for him the voice of Rohan, the voice of the people, without ever meaning to become so. She speaks of the importance of the horses, of the greatness of the symbols of the House of Eorl. She speaks of what the people fear – war and death and loss, more loss than any common man can fathom. She speaks of what they hope for – a strong, sovereign nation, standing upon its own legs, a shining beacon amidst a sea of darkness.

“And how might we make that happen, Aefentide, when Saruman holds our strings?” asks Gríma, staring unblinking into her face. He only uses her given name when he is very serious, or mocking her; it rings bitter and beautiful on his tongue, and she likes the way it tastes.

So, it seems, does the King.

“The White Wizard is a power not to be underestimated, and an ally I fear we cannot afford to lose,” he continues, as if the pause did not happen, as if he did not roll her name around his mouth like he meant to savor it. “Without him we are vulnerable.”

“Perhaps,” Éowyn agrees; “But he needs our strength as much as we require his, if what you say of his fears regarding the Dark Lord are true. Besides, we may arm ourselves in secret, without his ever knowing. His eye is turned elsewhere, for he trusts that your fear of him will make you a coward.”

She pauses and looks Gríma in the face, fearing his wrath; but he accepts the implication of his cowardice from her without any signs of anger. “He would not be wrong to think so,” he says, no apology in his eyes. “But how shall we arm ourselves, and make allies, in so secret a manner? There are many who might observe us, and Saruman is always watching.

Éowyn hesitates, tapping her fingers along the map at Gríma’s desk. “If you wish to be practical about the matter – and I do not suggest this lightly, for it does not please me to trade with servants of the Dark Lord – we might become a neutral trading post for all nations, Sauron’s, Saruman’s, and Free Folk alike,” she says.”In this way we may appease all parties.”

Gríma arches both brows. “Would you have me trade the horses we possess in favor of an army? Somehow I do not think the people of Rohan would accept that notion gladly.”

“We may hint at future promises, my lord, that need never be fulfilled,” she says. “And we have other things to trade besides – you have seen to that. Trade of this nature will bring in friends from many lands – people who might be able to supplement our military, who may come to our aid in battle if our need is great in return for the promise of our steeds.”

Gríma sits back, pressing a hand to his mouth, a finger tapping thoughtfully at his cheek. “It is an idea,” he says at last, non-committal but quietly admiring.

“A good idea,” Éowyn replies, triumphant, smiling.

He rolls his eyes, but beneath his hand, she knows he is smiling too.

*

Éowyn’s rebel contacts have little to say to her as the days continue to pass by; and she grows less and less interested in what they have to tell her.

When one suggests it might perhaps be prudent to move forward despite delays, she waves him off. “Gríma trusts me,” she says. “Let it stay that way for now. Perhaps he can be of use to us.”

But she is, in fact, far more eager to be of use to him. The manipulations of politics are quite beyond her, and they frighten her, as they must any as honest and straightforward as Éowyn has always been. The crown, she knows, is heavy, and Gríma bears its weight more gracefully than she can even bear its ghost.

Her contacts seem to sense the change; and they begin to grow restless. They speak of duty, honor, the glory of Rohan. They remind her of her parents and her brother, burnt to ashes on the plains of Rohan. They speak of Théoden whom she hardly knew, stirring restless in the ancient halls of his fathers, crying out for blood. They cry revenge, war, death.

But Éowyn isn’t listening. Childlike, angry, she covers her ears, and tells herself she never asked for this, never wanted this fate, never claimed it as her own. It was given to her, thrust upon her; and if she can escape it just a few months more, perhaps it will be long enough that she won’t have to carry it anymore.

*

She realizes one morning that she has ceased to think of Gríma as the Wormtongue, or even the Usurper King. She realizes also that he has taken to touching her at every opportunity, laying a hand at the small of her back, brushing her hair out of her eyes, touching her arm or her cheek after a joke.

She realizes that he looks at her as he looks at no one else: eyes warm and overflowing with affection, always smiling, always tender.

She realizes that that look makes her heart turn shivery and strange; that even if she knows he is a monster, she thinks of him as her monster, a man caught in a web of fear of his own making, desperately trying to escape.

She does not call it love, because she does not really know what love is. She remembers love, sometimes, in her nightmares, when her house burns and her mother screams and the sun sets blood-red into the shadows. But she pretends that her nightmares do not exist, and so long as they aren’t real, love is not real to her, either.

She realizes that she has not dreamed in nearly a year. The nightmares that once plagued her have been driven out in all the excitement of her game. She hopes, as soon as the realization hits, that they will never come back.

It is then, of course, that they do.

*

One night she dreams of her parents, burning and crumbling before her eyes. It is a vivid dream, so vivid she can smell them as they burn. They smell like roasted boar, like copper, like something sweet and rotten. She gags, eyes burning, and tries to crawl away, but their bodies are crawling after her, shaming her, hissing like serpents, _Your lineage… your blood… your duty… your crown…_

When she awakens, she is screaming, and Gríma has her in his arms.

She struggles for a moment to escape, still caught in the threads of her dream, the smell of burnt flesh still lingering in her nose; but Gríma’s hands are soft and cool, and his voice is tender, kind. It grounds her to her reality, to him.

She falls against him with a sob and clings to him, her fingers clutching at his shirt.

“Shh,” he soothes, stroking her hair. “It was a dream, sweet Sunnifa, just a dream… let it go, love. Let it go.”

She presses her face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, still clinging, still crying. “My parents – ” she says, trying to explain, trying to speak. The horror of it strangles her, forces her into silence. “They burned – ”

“Shh,” Gríma whispers, and kisses the top of her head. “Breathe, sweetling. Just breathe.”

“Their faces – I’ve forgotten,” she sobs, the words hardly discernible amidst her tears. “But I remember the fire, and the screams, and the way they smelled – I remember – ”

His grip upon her tightens, white-knuckle hard. His lips drop to her forehead, cool and soft against her burning skin. “You could not have saved them,” he murmurs, tugging, as if he can draw her closer, as if he can protect her merely with the force of his grip. “You would have died with them.”

“I wish I had,” she gasps, before she can stop the words; and the truth of it hits her, heavy and hard and breaking whatever restraint has held her these many long years. She is twenty-three now and her life is not her own, has never been her own. She belongs to the rebels and their cause, was never given a choice in the matter. She might have run anywhere after the fire, might have become whoever she wished. But here she is, waiting to kill a man whom it’s possible she loves; a man who is holding her through her nightmares, a man who looks at her like she means something more than a bloodline and a tarnished symbol.

He is as far from perfect as a man can be. He is broken and harsh and dear lord can he be cruel; but she sees herself in him, used and broken, trying to piece together the semblance of dignity from the shambles of a life the war has left him.

Her sobs are ugly things. Her body trembles beneath his hands, and he holds her like he loves her and will never let her go.

“I don’t wish that,” he says at last, his voice for once very small. “I am happier, having you here, than I have ever been.”

Something within Éowyn goes very still for a moment. The sobs slow and ease, but her fingers won’t unclench from the fabric of his shirt, and she cannot leave the warmth of his arms. “Thank you,” she says, her voice a broken whisper. “I… am happy too.”

He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, smoothing his palm over her cheek; and then he lets her go, rising to his feet and shuffling out of her small room. For a moment, the panic starts afresh, her heart fluttering like a frightened bird trapped inside her ribcage – but he returns a moment later with a candle and one of his books under his arm.

“What – ” she starts to ask, but he sets the candle down beside her and slips back into her bed, setting the book aside for the moment. She starts to mouth a protest, but he scoops her up and settles her back against his torso, her head resting against his chest and her hips between his thighs. His legs arc up on either side of her, protective, hiding her from her dreams.

He lifts the book, flips it open, and begins to read, in a slow, hypnotic tone. His voice is beautiful, she thinks; hearing it, it is no surprise to her that the kingdom fell to him. Men would kill at the behest of such a voice.

But he asks no such task of her; instead, he paints for her a picture, intricate and detailed, of ancient maidens and comely young soldiers, of battles fought and won against the rising tide of darkness. She takes comfort in the tale, and in his voice, and in him, settling against him at last.

She falls asleep against his chest. She dreams, for once, of peace.

*

When she awakens in the morning, he is still there, asleep now, holding her. Both arms are tight around her waist, legs splayed to give her room. One leg dangles listlessly off the edge of the bed. For a moment, she is at peace; but then she starts with fear, for anyone might come upon them and think that something else had happened between them.

She supposes no one will much care – she is, after all, just a servant, just a chambermaid, there for her King’s pleasure – whatever that pleasure might be; but it matters to her what they think. It matters to the rebels what the people will think.

The rebels, the war, a crown set heavy on her head…

Defiantly, Éowyn turns in Gríma’s arms and hides her face inside his shirt. Just for a moment, she tells herself. Just something to remember this night by…

He smells like ink and old parchment and perhaps a little like mulled wine. He is broken and pale and old beneath her lips, but she cannot imagine him any other way. Her fingers tighten in the linen folds of his shirt, and she lingers a moment longer. Two moments. Three.

He smells, she thinks, like home.

*

Things are different after that morning. Éowyn is subdued, and Gríma awkward. The casual banter that usually marks their conversations is absent, and when they address each other, their tones are formal and they avoid each other’s eyes.

Éowyn knows that Horst has noticed. It is in the way he looks at her, furrowed brows and narrowed eyes and a curious set to his mouth. But though he knows, he says nothing to address the matter; better, he must think, to let them manage it alone.

Gríma goes to court as usual, and Éowyn cleans as always, straightening his desk, dusting his books and scrolls, sweeping and scrubbing the floors, shaking out the furs. She catches herself wondering what his bed must feel like, and if he ever thinks of her in it; flushing, she flees the bedroom and cleans the bath instead, vigorously scrubbing her own thoughts from her mind.

Her contact reports to her as usual, but Éowyn hardly hears a word. Progress has been stalled again. Favor is high with the king these days. He is always in such a fine mood recently. He has changed, has done so much to help the country, has brought in so much money. There is no loyalty in Rohan anymore. The people have forgotten Eorl, forgotten Théoden. They do not listen to the stories anymore. Éowyn is dead to them.

“Perhaps if we act soon…” he says; but Éowyn waves him off.

“What use is it to act now, when Gríma has things so firmly in hand?” she asks. “Let Eorl die, if that is what this country needs. Let his bloodline fade into legend, and let my uncle rest in the hall of his forefathers where he belongs. Perhaps it is better that way.”

Her contact is aghast, floundering, sputtering excuses and demands. Éowyn shakes her head and dismisses him again, and returns to her room to await the king’s return.

The book is on her bed still, marked with a tooled strip of leather. She wonders for a moment if Gríma made it himself; she has never seen him work with leather, but he has other, lesser known talents.

When he returns after supper he pauses by her closed door. He stands there a long time, as if he is listening for her, as if he wishes to come in; but when she does not come for him, he shuffles away and undresses himself, spitting curses at the candles he lights in the dark.

*

She dreams again of her parents that night, more vividly than before. The terror runs quick and hot in her veins, and before she can stop herself she is on her feet and through his bedroom door, standing at his bedside with the book in hand, trembling. “My lord?” she says, her voice very soft, shaking in the darkness.

A candle lights the dark, illuminating him. He has not slept, it seems; his eyes are bright and wakeful, muscles taut and at attention. He is on his feet and across the room to her in moments, cupping her face in his hands and pressing kisses to her cheeks before she can voice her fears. “Aefentide,” he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse and full of wanting. “Sweeting…”

The book falls from nerveless fingers, and she falls against him, her face tipped up to his. “I dreamed of war and death,” she says, her eyes fluttering closed.

His mouth is hot tonight and hungry, taking more than she should give, taking more than she should want. “You need not worry so much, my love,” he says, his words a promise. “There will be no war so long as I live.”

She opens her eyes and stares into his. “Then you will not live long,” she says. “You cannot stave off war forever.”

He growls a little, annoyance in the rough-shod edges of his voice. He does not want to talk of war. His thoughts are bent on her. “You need not be the one to fight it,” he replies, caught in the taste of her flesh, in the heat of her in his arms.

She draws back, casting him an incredulous stare. “Who will be, then?” she asks. “You? You, who hate and fear swords as most men fear orcs, who rarely lifts a blade?”

His eyes narrow, and he steps back, wounded, angry now. “It will not come to that,” he says, stubbornly. “I had not thought it such a trouble to you, to have a swordless king.”

Éowyn relents, biting her lip, desperate to make him see. “It is not,” she says; “But I fear for your life, for Rohan. Your gift is in cunning and in strategy, not in battle itself.”

He sighs, fingers tapping impatiently against his opposing arm. He wants to be touching her. She can see it in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. “Must we do this now?” he asks, voice strained. “I cannot imagine that this is what you need now, fresh from your nightmare. Come here, let me comfort you…”

She laughs softly, arching a brow at him, the smile lingering playfully on her lips. “My comfort is less important than the safety of the nation,” she says, stepping back when he reaches out for her. “You need a general your soldiers will rally behind – a soldier born and raised with a sword in hand. Someone the Rohirrim will love.”

She expects him to protest, to make some retort and take her in his arms again; but he only pauses, raising both brows, frowning slightly in thought. “You mean, of course, yourself,” he says, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

Éowyn swallows. The thought, spoken aloud, confirms for her what she already has been considering: revealing her deception, her true lineage, her lie. But how could he have guessed her meaning? To him she is but a servant, a pretty little chambermaid he hopes to warm his bed. “I did,” she agrees at last, curling her fingers into fists. The lie will be hard to spit out, she thinks; he will hate her, he will disown her, he will cast her out or execute her. Betrayal is his greatest fear. But she wants this, and him, and Rohan safe and sound; and this is the only way she can think to unite the broken pieces of her life, no matter the consequences.

Gríma is looking at her as if he understands. He smiles, so softly, and Éowyn closes her eyes, steeling herself against that tenderness, knowing what will inevitably come next.

“I suppose,” he says, “That you are right. The people of Rohan are certain to follow Théoden’s long lost heir, the last vestige of their mighty royal house.”

Her eyes fly open, her lips parting in shock. “How – ?” she asks, aghast.

Gríma smirks and pats her cheek as if she is a child. “You think you are so clever, sweet princess,” he says. “But you and your friends are not so good at hiding, nor do you know the meaning of subtlety. I have known who you are from the day you came into Meduseld. I thought it might be amusing, to see how long you would carry on the charade.”

Éowyn folds her arms across her chest, cheeks flaming. “Well, begging your pardon, your majesty,” she says, her voice sharp with her own humiliation. “I hope I was entertainment enough for you. Did you enjoy your little game, my lord?”

He grows serious, his smile fading away. “I am afraid the game got away from me rather quickly,” he confesses, staring down at his hands. His fingers curl and stroke his palms, as if he is touching her soft skin. “I am afraid I did not expect to like you as much as I do.”

She softens a little. “On that point at least we are agreed.”

He looks up, eyes hot and hungry once again. “Some days I thought to tell you that I knew – those days when you looked most tormented,” he tells her. “This game, I think, has begun to tear you apart. But I feared what you would do, when you realized I knew. I would be glad to die by your hands, love; but in truth, my lady, I would have you live, and stand by me, rather than see either of us dead and buried.”

Éowyn hesitates, uncertain now, afraid. This is dangerous ground they walk upon. This is love and politics and war all in one, threatening to slay them both. “Stand by you… how?” she asks, lifting her chin. She is a princess now, heir to the throne on which Gríma sits; and she must negotiate like she is one, like she understands this game.

Gríma, it is plain, is not playing any games this time. He is earnest and anxious, eyes blazing with hope. “I would make you queen of this land, sweet Éowyn, if you would ever deign to have me,” he says. She starts at her given name upon his tongue; it sounds so foreign, so strange. “I may once have been to you but a usurper and a snake, but in you I have found new purpose. Stand at my side, and you shall be the general you wish for, the leader your little band so hopes for you to be. You will be a Shieldmaiden of legend, and go the halls of your fathers a battle-hardened warrior; and come home to me a hero.” He takes her hands in his, clutching them in a bone-crushing grip. “I swear to bend to you in all things. It will be your word that rules this land. I will sit at your right hand and advise you where you are uncertain, and care for the matters to which I am best suited; but in war and in matters of Rohan’s lore and ancient law you shall be sole master.”

Éowyn smiles a little, a tremulous smile, frightened and overwhelmed. “You fought hard to gain your power,” she says. “You will not relinquish it to me so easily.”

He clutches her hands the tighter. “Our power will be shared together,” he says. “Two may rule as one. And for you, my lady, there is no price I would not pay. I will go to battle in your place, if that is what you would have of me; or step down from the throne, if you truly wish that. Name your price and you will have it.”

Éowyn hesitates, trying to clear her mind; but this, she thinks, is what she wants, is what she has been wanting all her life. She may balance her responsibility to her people and her own desires this way, and kill no one in the process; and so much the better if Gríma is on her side, for he is clever and cunning, and has the head for politics that Éowyn does not.

She lets out a breath, slowly, and nods, just once. “No price but your loyalty, my lord,” she says. “Your loyalty, and your love.”

His smile burns bright and hot upon his face, and warms the cold depths of his eyes. “Éowyn,” he breathes, and sweeps her up into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers at last.

Éowyn lets him cradle her, curling her fingers in his hair. She is too aware that they are standing on a precipice, that the happy dreams he presents to her may never come to pass; but in the end, it does not matter what awaits her. Tonight, she has him, and herself; and carried between them, the crown is not so heavy anymore.


End file.
